


275 - Looking After Van Fluff

by storiesaboutvan



Category: Catfish and the Bottlemen (Band)
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Sad/Sick Van, body pos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-12
Updated: 2018-05-12
Packaged: 2019-05-05 17:12:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,691
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14623347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesaboutvan/pseuds/storiesaboutvan
Summary: Filling the prompt “one where reader washes Van’s hair?? Like he just came back from a very exhausting day and reader just wants to pamper him? Him on the bathtub and reader sitting on the edge of it washing his hair.”





	275 - Looking After Van Fluff

Rain had been pouring for three days straight in a near-constant deluge that had resulted in flooded streets and disgustingly wet socks. Umbrellas were no defence; they were torn to shreds by the merciless winds. Gumboots and plastic jackets were the only things that helped. Well, helped outside at least. Inside was a whole different story. 

The gutters had collected leaves in the weeks before the storm. They stood no chance against the tsunami, and water quickly found its way through small cracks in the roof and ceiling. Pots and pans were emptied on the hour. It was an old house too; a lack of central heating meant that the sole source of warmth was the antique wood fire in the lounge room. Luckily, the room was small and it was easy to build a blanket nest in front of the open flames.

The fire-front nest was where Van found you on the day he didn’t get his way for the first time in his hashtag blessed life. Before he even began an explanation, you knew during the hours you’d spent curled up with a book and a cup of tea, he’d spent waging some sort of personal war. Rain masking the sound of the car pulling up on the gravel driveway, the door slamming was your first indicator that Van was home and something was wrong.

When a string of muttered cuss words floated into the room, you sat up and bookmarked the page. Listening, you heard the sound of his boots being thrown to the wooden floor harder than necessary. There would surely be a puddle of muddy water. Van’s keys hit the floor too, bypassing the hook on the wall entirely. When he finally walked into the lounge room, his feet were bare and his face was set to sulky.

“Peanut? What’s wrong?” you asked, pushing blankets off your legs and standing. Van didn’t respond; instead, he opted to wait for you to approach him. His hands were on his hips and he didn’t look like he was going to budge. You threaded your arms through the hoops made and hugged him tightly. “Hi,” you whispered 

Van sighed hard. His whole body grew bigger with the breath in and sunk into itself on the breath out. Shoulders rolled forward and spine bent in, everything about the way he was presenting screamed exhaustion.

“Hey, Marshmallow,” Van finally said back. His voice was croaky. It had not been a quiet day.

“Come sit? Tell me about your day," 

"Nah. Just…” he replied quickly, taking a step away from you. “I’m fuckin’ drenched. Jeans are glued to ma’ legs. Jus’ gonna take a shower.”

The phrase ‘take a shower’ sounded like a death sentence. It sounded like something he was being forced to do, no choice. Van loved showers and baths though. Naturally playful and inventive, he was easily entertained by shower karaoke and bath bubbles. For him to be so despondent about it was more evidence of the no good, bad day.

“Wait, baby, wait,” you said, letting him walk away but taking his hand so he’d have to take you too.

“Mmmm?”

“Got a better idea. Let’s have a bath. Lemme wash your hair.” As you offered, you reached out and touched the back of Van’s head. He stopped walking and you dug your fingers through his hair. He couldn’t help himself. Achilles heel and all that.

Van turned around and looked at you with glassy eyes. He was on the verge of total breakdown, total exhaustion. You nodded at him and he slowly nodded back. Even that looked like it was snapping his neck.

Still holding his hand, you took the lead and went straight into the bathroom. Van closed the lid of the toilet and sat down, folding his arms on the vanity and resting his head on them. 

Water running, you quickly left the room to fetch the stupidly expensive and totally over the top matching robes someone had gifted for your engagement. They were still in their box, all folded up in sweet smelling tissue paper. When you hooked the robes on the back of the bathroom door, it almost got a laugh out of Van.

“Alright. I’ll shortlist the bath bomb situation for you, because I don’t wanna stress you out with too much choice. So… Do you want…” Half the bathroom cupboard space was dedicated to bath bombs alone. “The lavender one. That might be nice 'cause it’s a sleepy smell.” Holding it up to show Van what it looked it, he didn’t seem that keen. You let him smell it, then continued digging through the cupboard. “Or do you want this one? I don’t really know what it is but it smells like gingerbread, so that’s nice and warming, I guess.” He smiled when he smelt the maybe-gingerbread, so you dropped it into the bath and watched it fizz and dissolve.

When the water was a touchable temperature, you motioned for Van to stand. He just looked up at you, growing more and more hazy by the minute.

“Come on. You can nap in the bath, yeah?”

“You comin’?” he asked, standing and lifting his arms up. You had to stand on the toilet to gain the height needed to successfully lift his shirt off. It was a button up shirt, but his action of arms-up triggered some innate reaction. Van wrapped his arms around you and lifted you back to the ground.

“If you want,”

“Always want.”

It had not been hyperbole to say Van’s jeans were glued on. They were already very fucking tight (you often watched his thigh muscle move under the fabric as Van walked about the house or danced on stage), adding water was always bound to make it worse. But, once they were peeled off, Van looked a lot more comfortable. His mood even perked up a little bit.

Van got into the bath and stretched out. He sunk in deep enough that only his knees surfaced, and his face from top to nose. It reminded you of why he’d earned the name Peanut. Strange little thing, he was. Weird little nut.

You disappeared briefly to collect a plastic jug from the kitchen. It spent more time helping to clean hair than it did cook food. Van watched you collect the shampoo and conditioner from the shower, then return to the bath’s side.

“Marshmallow. Said you were getting’ in,” Van said, his mouth only barely above the water. As soon as he’d finished his sentence, he dropped his chin back down and his lips were under again.

“Yeah, I will. Gotta wash your hair first,”

“Wash it in here.” It was a clear instruction delivered when he’d sat up and looked at you seriously.

“Van,”

“Y/N. You 'member that we’re engaged, right? Like, we live together and stuff? All that?”

Going unsaid was the argument about the lights. Whenever your clothes came off, the lights would too. Van had seen you in brief moments, flashes, bits and pieces, like an unsolvable jigsaw that he could only put together in his mind. Despite the countless showers and baths you’d taken together, you’d always start the ceremony by turning the lights off and leaving the door ajar.

You never bothered to pretend it was anything other than self-consciousness. There were curves and rolls and squishiness that you feared would make you unloveable. Or, maybe not unlovable, but less easy to lust after. It didn’t matter how much Van begged to differ.

On the night you met, you were both very drunk. Van found you flicking through jukebox selections. He leaned against the wall of the bar and watched you before even speaking. Trying your best to ignore him, you couldn’t contain the giant stupid smile breaking out across your face. It took less than an hour for your bodies to be pressed together in a poor attempt at dancing. Van rested his head on your shoulder, leaning his mouth against your neck.

“You’re so soft,” he mumbled. His hands were holding your hips and they began to move down to anywhere that you’d lean into the touch. “Soft and smooshy and warm and good,” he’d said, making you laugh. The way he’d said it made it sound like a compliment, like he’d been looking for soft and smooshy and warm and good his whole life. “You’re a marshmallow, aren’t cha’?”

“Yeah…” you answered Van in the bathroom that was safe. He looked at you. “I just-”

“Don’t trust me?”

“What? No. Course I trust you,”

“Then trust me when I say that I love ya to death. And not, like…” but he hesitated.

“Just say it,” you said, even though you were absolutely terrified to hear it.

“It’s not even like I love you ’even though’ you're… curvy or whatever,” he started, slowly, with air quotations. Part of you wished he’d just said 'chubby’ and the metaphorical elephant in the room could be addressed. “I love you 'cause you’re you. I love your kindness. I love how warm you are and how much people just fall in love with ya. I love that you’re not very good at jokes because I ain’t either. I love your body. And I know you ain’t gonna believe me, but I really, really love your little belly. I really do. I love you, Y/N.”

Van could have ended it with, 'you just have to let me love you,’ but he was all out of cliches.

Your nose tingled and your fingers fidgeted in nervousness. There was no doubt about what the right thing to do was. It didn’t make it any easier. Slowly, you nodded and stood up. He wasn’t letting you off the hook. Van watched as you slid your pyjama pants down and kicked them to the side. You knew that your stretchmarks glistened under the bathroom lights because you’d spent a generous amount of time looking at them yourself. You took your shirt off with a straight back, so not to bend over and force all the fat into one place. With your bra off, Van could see the marks pressed into your skin by it. He’d always been dismayed by the marks, figuring it meant the bra hurt. Your underwear was last to go, freeing the trapped curly hair.

“Get in,” Van whispered. You were thankful that he’d not spoken loudly, abruptly. Naked, you were as fragile as he was when he first got home. Probably more. 

The water was perfectly hot and as you slid into the bath behind Van, he pulled your legs around him then leant back into you. His back was flat against your chest, and you knew when he moved it would make a suctioned pop! noise.

For a long time, you stayed like that, quiet and in love. Van’s arms were wrapped around your legs. Under your watchful eye, he fell asleep and you listened to his weird little sleeping sounds that reminded you of the kitten you’d had as a kid. When you were together like that, Marshmallow and Peanut (sometimes: Peanut Butter), you were in your own world entirely.

The water was starting to lose its warmth and your skin was too soft to hold its shape. Trying to sit up, you moved Van enough that he stirred from his aquatic nap. His eyes were more bloodshot than before, but he’d lost the anger the day had coated him in.

“I’ll wash. You talk,” you told him.

Van was good at getting his hair washed. He could hold his head back for extended periods and he could sit very still. It was the only time you could ever say that about him. As you lathered his hair with shampoo and massaged it through, he began to tell you about his day. Despite being an honest believer in the notion that pain and drama is a relative thing, that one person’s final straw may be another’s first, you still had to laugh at Van sometimes. Yeah, the Peanut knew he was lucky. He was definitely grateful for everything he had, but when he didn’t get his way he tended to be disproportionally outraged about it.

“They’re not lettin’ us release the new one until mid year,” Van said. This proceeded a long rant about why he thought that was a stupid decision on the label’s part. “When you’ve got a favourite band, you don’t want 'em to disappear for a fuckin’ year, you know what I mean? I don’t want to do that. Want to be putting out music and touring all the time,”

“I know, but a break means they’ll be more hype when you come back, you know? Absence makes the heart grow fonder,”

“They love us enough. Just wanted to keep the momentum,” he replied with a shrug. You were rinsing the shampoo out and watching him rant with his eyes closed was kinda funny, but you withheld any audible laughter.

“Where’s all your optimism, Peanut? And also, don’t you want to spend some time home? Do all that domestic stuff you used to talk about before you got all famous?”

“I already told you, I don’t know how to fix the roof,” Van said deadpan. You laughed. Maybe Bernie knew how? “I don’t want to spend time home. I want to spend time with you, but the more we tour, the bigger we get, the more times you can come with me. You want that, right?” He ran his hands over his now-clean hair, pushing the water from it, then turned to look at you. Even if you didn’t want to be on tour with him, there was no way you could ever say that to him. When you nodded, he turned back around and handed you the conditioner.

“There’s lots of stuff we could so between now and then,” you told him. Too much conditioner fell into your hand, so you completely saturated Van’s hair with it. As you rubbed it in, it oozed between your fingers and you couldn’t work out if you liked the sensation or not.

“Like what?” He sounded like a petulant child.

“Like… get married… or at least organise the wedding. Have a baby. Buy another puppy,”

“Little Mary would be jealous,”

“Of the baby or a new puppy?” you asked.

“Both.”

But you’d hooked him in with the McCann Family Dream. Van did the math out loud and determined that it probably wasn’t the right time to spawn any new life, but a wedding… a wedding was definitely on the cards. Already decided was the fact that it would be a small, casual thing. He’d borrow a few traditions from his Irish heritage, and your own roots would be represented too. The cake had to be a combination of marshmallow and peanut butter, but you’d not tell your guest why. Those who had spent too much time with you both would figure it out. Mostly that meant Larry.

When you washed the conditioner out of Van’s hair, the bath water became murky with all the different oils and products. It was hardly even hot anymore, lukewarm at best. Before you could move, Van was back leaning up against you, taking your arms to wrap around his body.

“You don’t want to get out?” you asked him. “Water’s almost cold,”

“No,” he replied. You felt the movement then. He’d pulled the plug out and was letting half the water go down the drain. Just before it could start a noisy little whirlpool, he put the plug back in, then turned the taps on. All the sounds masked the storm’s racket, which you hadn’t realised you’d grown accustomed to at all.

“Do you want a face mask then?”

He looked up at you and grinned. You wondered what you looked like from that angle, knowing how your reflection looked when you accidentally opened your phone’s camera facing forward. Before you had much time to ponder too hard, Van leant up and kissed your jawline.

“Can we put another bath bomb in too? Want to feel it all fizzy and stuff.”


End file.
